


What horses can buy

by gentlezombie



Category: Sharpe - All Media Types
Genre: India, M/M, book fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-28 16:06:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/309629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gentlezombie/pseuds/gentlezombie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sharpe is a devious bastard and Colonel McCandless receives an unexpected gift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What horses can buy

**Author's Note:**

> Small spoilers for _Sharpe's Tiger_ and _Sharpe's Triumph_. This'll hopefully be enjoyable even if you haven't read the books. I'm aware that my McCandless is somewhat less saintly than in canon...
> 
> This is a part of my personal "Get Sharpe Laid" project (not that he needs much help), covering Sharpe's Triumph. I'm attempting to write a little something for every Sharpe book I read, for the simple reason that he is so delightfully slashable.
> 
> Also, in the world of this fic, Hakeswill has been fed to the tigers and is not perving on Sharpe from the next cell.

Although Colonel McCandless was well into his sixties, he did take notice of a good-looking lad or a lass every now and then. Sin and folly, that was what it was, but as firm as the Colonel's faith in the Holy Book was, he had seen enough war in his lifetime to know there were graver sins a man could commit than appreciating beauty wherever he could find it. God knew there wasn't too much of it in the world. He said his prayers every night and read his Bible under the strange southern stars, and a man could do a lot worse by God than that.

That he noticed Richard Sharpe was not surprising; there was hardly a man or a woman that didn't, although Sharpe seemed thankfully ignorant of the attention. The Colonel's nephew had noticed him as well. Poor William had been painfully transparent, blushing or blundering every time Sharpe so much as looked his way. At first McCandless had explained it away as hero-worship for he knew his nephew admired capable soldiers and sometimes felt uncomfortable in his role as an officer. It made sense for such a young man to seek an experienced mentor, although few would have stooped to look for someone like that from the ranks.

Still, something in their interactions had struck McCandless as strange. Not only would William go out of his way to protect the soldier, but Sharpe seemed to expect that of him, and what business did he have expecting anything of an officer? Had McCandless not had his own undercover mission to worry about he would have tried to solve that mystery.

As it was, the next time he met the two men was at the courtyard of the Tippoo's palace when Sharpe tried to shoot his head off.

It was downright impossible to ignore two people when one was trapped in the same cell with them. Even in the throes of fever, McCandless couldn't help noticing that something had happened between the two of them. They had a different kind of ease with each other, the illusion of rank and respect only kept up for the Colonel's sake. In all honesty, Willie looked a great deal more worldly than the fresh-faced lad McCandless remembered; his face was tanned and not once did he blanch at Sharpe's foul language.

There were less subtle signs as well - William's furious blushing when he handed over the torn, stained Bible page; the quiet chuckles when they were supposed to be working on Sharpe's reading; the way Sharpe let Willie take care of his wounded back, admitting that he might need looking after.

And above all that, there were the few times when they thought McCandless was sleeping, delirious with fever. The first time, he'd cracked his eyes open at the strange sounds, only to get a glimpse of William who had backed Sharpe against the wall and was kissing him with hungry determination, his hands somewhere under the soldier's tunic. He'd closed his eyes quickly, prepared to blame the demons of fever or his own mind for such an indecency, but the whispery sounds of flesh on flesh followed him into troubled slumber.

They didn't do it often at all for men trapped in close quarters with naught else to do, or at least they didn't get caught. McCandless remembered witnessing only three or four times, but that was enough to get his imagination running. He should have been praying, preparing his soul for the final judgement that surely wasn't far off. At the very least he should've tried to put a stop to the distractions. In this respect, he was perhaps less good than he liked to believe.

Weakened and sick, he had let his thoughts drift where they wanted. It seemed, to his surprise, that it was often William taking the initiative. Not that Sharpe was in any way passive, he could damn well take his pleasure when he wanted to, but he appeared to be content to let William manoeuvre him against convenient surfaces and have his way with him. Was it unexpected consideration on Sharpe's part for his inexperienced friend, or simply a preference? But then, there was that one time with William flat on his back on the cell floor, with Sharpe biting at his neck, his hand down the other man's trousers, and William had let out an indignant sound that quickly turned into something else...

Lord, McCandless was too old for this. For years, he had told himself that he was finished with precisely this kind of nonsense. Spying on his cellmates who happened to be his own nephew and a soldier from the ranks? It seemed he had gotten older but none the wiser, and certain parts of him hadn't gotten old at all. Thankfully, they managed to escape before the awkwardness became unbearable.

McCandless was once again blissfully alone, perfectly content to share his life between work and God. Only he happened to run into Sharpe awfully often, and Sharpe was a very useful man to have on missions...

 

McCandless understood callous ambition, he did, but holding onto Aeolus's reins, still wondering how he had been so easily bribed into talking to General Wellesley on Sharpe's behalf, he couldn't help but wonder if there wasn't something more to this.

"You got me a horse," he said in careful, measured tones. "I still wonder as to the occasion."

"Fishing for compliments, sir?" Sharpe's voice teased him from the darkness, something it had no business doing, but then that was a part of the man's appeal. "I already told you you've been fair to me. A proper officer."

Ah, but Sharpe was careful for a straightforward man. That impish tone was the only thing hinting at some greater interest on his part - that and the magnificent horse, fit for a sultan.

"I didn't think you appreciated propriety," McCandless pointed out.

Sharpe shrugged. "I like fairness, people who do what needs to be done. I don't appreciate overdressed idiots who can't bend the rules or improvise to save their arses. But you, sir, are very good at the last two."

"Improvising?" McCandless realised he had just been complimented on lying and cheating. He really shouldn't have felt so pleased about it.

"And the bending, sir," Sharpe said gravely, just a hint of laughter in his voice.

"Your mind is a curious thing, Sharpe," McCandless sighed in both frustration and relief. How could a man be so cunning and so blunt at the same time? Still, at least he knew he wasn't imagining undertones where there weren't any - this was rather like being hit over the head with a sledgehammer. "I must admit to a certain curiosity myself. Was there any other reason, any reason at all, for this sudden kindness than me being proper?" he asked dryly.

"Well, sir, when you put it like that..." Sharpe put his hand on McCandless's arm and left it there, stepping closer when he wasn't reprimanded. "Maybe I thought you weren't too proper for this."

Sharpe's lips were chapped and dry on his, a shock even after many a night of wandering thoughts. _Is it always this easy for you?_ he wanted to ask, but then decided it probably was. The warm mouth on his was very good at silencing questions.

McCandless broke away with a gasp, his hands clenched on Sharpe's shirt, heart beating rapidly. This sort of fooling around wasn't good for his health.

"Not out here, for God's sake," he said and tugged Sharpe towards his tent, none too gently. The Sergeant came easily, his teeth white in the darkness as he grinned.

"Using the good Lord's name in vain, sir?"

The Colonel sighed. "I may have need of Him tonight."

The sensible, responsible thing to do would have been to wait until they got to an inn or - McCandless frowned in distaste - a convenient whorehouse, but he wasn't at all willing to let go of the man now that he finally had him. Propriety, in all things, would have to wait.

He'd never believed there was such a thing as being too old for new tricks, but even so, he was surprised by how much he learned of Sharpe and himself that night. His initial hesitance - concerns about age and rank - vanished as he was kissed with surprising passion, calloused hands ridding him of his jacket and shirt. Practised, he thought wryly, but forgot to disapprove as Sharpe carefully manoeuvred them down on the bed in the confined space.

"You're a lucky bastard, sir," Sharpe breathed against his neck, and McCandless knew the contradictory words for the great compliment they were. For a soldier, surviving till old age was almost a miracle, and it meant you were skilled and lucky, both qualities equally important. It made sense that Sharpe was attracted by competence, but perhaps it was a little more than that; the way Sharpe looked at him, fingers brushing his white hair and mapping the lines of his face, was almost reverent.

At the moment, he quite agreed with Sharpe. Lucky bastard indeed.

McCandless couldn't see Sharpe all that well in the light of the single lantern, so he let his hands memorise the sharp planes and contours of him, the scars and hollows that awoke a curious combination of admiration and sadness. Reluctant admiration for what this man was, strong and ruthless and dangerous, and a kind of sentimental regret that this was what men like Sharpe needed to become in order to survive.

But when his hands reached the jagged scarring on Sharpe's back, the young man batted his hands away irritably.

"Itches," he explained.

McCandless gave him a stern look. "Your back isn't still bothering you?" _Are you still bitter?_ was what he wanted to ask, unable to imagine what it was like to almost get killed by one's own side, all civilised and by the book.

Sharpe shrugged. "Can't exactly feel much." That was as much as McCandless was going to get out of him on the subject, because Sharpe tugged his hands downwards with a mocking grin. "Now, sir, you might have better luck with other places..."

And that was the end of reasoning for the night, because McCandless had a handsome young man in his lap, eager as you please, and his hands felt firm buttocks through the thinning trousers. He leaned forward to capture that wicked mouth, heard Sharpe let out a huff of surprise as he was pushed down on the pallet, and then exhaled himself as the younger man opened his legs easily, one long leg wrapping around his waist to pull him closer.

He'd forgotten the rush of holding someone down, someone strong and capable you didn't need to worry about. There was absolutely no need to worry about Sharpe; he gave himself with an abandon that was not exactly unexpected but no less gratifying for that, fingers clenching and unclenching on the blankets, his eyes open and unashamed. And Sharpe was equally happy to do some holding down of his own, afterwards, tricking McCandless's old body into thinking it was twenty years younger  and leaving the Colonel gasping for breath, pleased and incredulous.

"So," McCandless said after an indeterminate amount of time had passed, although it must not have been all that long since no light was yet filtering through the tent's canvas. "You and William Lawford."

Sharpe had dozed off and grumbled into McCandless's back. "Knew about that, did you? I reckoned you might."

McCandless was hit by a sudden suspicion, and he turned to look at Sharpe, wincing a little at the twinge at his neck. "You did it on purpose," he said slowly. "In Seringapatam, in the dungeons, knowing I could hear the two of you."

"Me, sir? No, sir." Sharpe's expression was angelic. "Why, were you listening?"

McCandless sighed, too tired and satisfied to summon indignant anger. "Listening and watching, Sharpe, listening and watching. For the love of God, please don't tell me my nephew was in on this."

Sharpe laughed. "Willie? I doubt he could've done anything if he'd known his uncle was watching. It was hard enough to convince him that you were passed out with fever, and even then he kept feeling awfully guilty. Guilty enough to hide behind skirts and rank now that we're back."

Relieved beyond measure to know his nephew had not been in on the deception, McCandless asked, "There's nothing between the two of you, then?"

"You're not stealing me away from dear William if that's what you're asking," Sharpe grinned. "We both knew it was going to end when we were done playing runaways. A good time, though, for us both, so I don't grudge him for ignoring me for a bit. Takes a man a while to get his bearings back."

"You seem to be quite alright," McCandless pointed out wryly.

"Me? Well, I'm used to running away, and other things." Sharpe didn't elaborate, but it was obvious that William _wasn't_. "Don't feel like running away from the army, though", he added with a thoughtful frown. "It's like, I could stick with this one, and be good at it."

"You are good," McCandless said, pushing aside his worry for his nephew for the moment. "At times reckless and foolish, but _good_." McCandless himself wasn't certain whether he was talking about Sharpe's skills as a soldier or something more besides, but it was God's honest truth. He flashed a sly smile at Sharpe, one he'd not been using in a long time. "Besides, why would you leave the army when you're about to be made an officer?"

"You old bastard," Sharpe said, a grin tugging at his mouth, "you got me there." And, when he had rolled over like pleased a cat and his weight and his breath tickled the Colonel just right, "That a promise, Hector?"

 

Sharpe made his way through the camp under the paling sky, whistling to himself, terribly out of tune, and grinning all the while.

It was good to be a rogue, and a scavenger, and not at all honourable. They said money couldn't make a man happy, but that was all preacher's talk, and besides, the bastard who came up with that had obviously never been poor. The rest of the Tippoo Sultan's jewels were a reassuring weight in the seams of his threadbare jacket.

The diamonds had bought him Simone's favour, back in Ahmednuggur. Sharpe remembered how impressed she'd been, rolling the precious stones about and looking at him shyly from underneath her fringe, realising that he was rich.

And now? Sharpe was a few emeralds poorer, thrilled with excitement because of prospects which shouldn't even have existed, and there was a satisfying burn in his muscles like only after a fight or a good fucking.

It was a wonder what horses could buy.


End file.
